


Images

by Typey



Category: Leverage
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 11:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Typey/pseuds/Typey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parker gets a bit lost in her head after Tara's abrupt exit from the team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Images

**Author's Note:**

> I'm currently doing a first-time watch, so no spoiling, please!

_Leather pants. Purple silk. Terrycloth. Rappelling harness._

Parker had always been able to orient herself, to visualize, to see patterns and spaces. But curled up in the back of the helicopter, she had no idea how to make sense of the images flashing through her mind, no plan that would lead her to a switch that would turn them of. She could map rooms and map lock tumblers and map any array of lasers, but she could not map the path her subconscious was taking, back to the ship’s deck, back to that rooftop, back to the moment in the utility closet when Parker had allowed her hands to wander in the dark, back to the look Parker hoped she hadn’t only imagined on Tara’s face when she stood there in that maid’s uniform. Back to that day Dalton Rand had torn open Parker’s heart. Back to the first time she’d seen Tara as a grifter and not a dupe.

Tara, in Nate’s apartment, wearing those black boots and those tight pants and that tank top. Parker’s mind couldn’t, wouldn’t, stop remembering that belt buckle and those hoop earrings. The outfit she’d taken in from the floor all the way up, the outfit she’d shifted to the back of her attention as soon as she registered Tara calling her “adorable.” Indignation rising the second time Tara used that word; she _wasn’t_ one of them. Not then.

 

_A sly smile. An arching spine. Eyes half-closed above a mouth half-open._

Tara had seen her on the floor, seen the tear streaks and red eyes, heard the things she’d never admitted. Heard her voice break. Watched as she stared off into space, fully taken in by someone else. But afterward, Tara didn’t shame her by acknowledging that gullibility or by acknowledging the content of her secrets, Tara didn’t shame her by acknowledging that the team had had to lead Parker through Rand’s con step-by-step. Instead of treating Parker like the scared, stupid child she felt like, Tara had only smiled at Parker’s desire to dismember and decapitate the fraud. 

And afterward, Tara took her for a walk. Held her hand. Didn’t ask questions, didn’t offer sympathies. Tara led her to a stand of trees away from the path. With their backs to the trunk of a large oak, Tara drew Parker down to the ground and nestled the younger woman under her arm. When the tears had stopped, Parker had let herself be lulled by Tara’s hands -- one stroking up and down her forearm and the other carding lightly through her hair -- and the heartbeat within the steadily rising and falling chest beneath her head. She curled closer in to Tara, wrapping her arm around Tara’s waist and finding space between Tara’s thighs for her knee. 

Parker didn’t ask questions, didn’t offer explanations; she shifted until she could roll her hips and grind against Tara’s flexing thigh, the panting breaths from both women filling the space between them. Rocking together, hands clenching into fabric, Parker and Tara arched in unison.

 

_A head tilted back to release a moan. Hands reaching up to find anything to hold on to. Legs falling open._

They’d had nearly the entire five hours. Their part of the scam wasn’t impossible, and the boys were distracted. And Tara had taken her to an apartment that Parker was certain wasn’t her home, and might not have even been one of her cover addresses. But it had a couch, and a kitchen counter, and a bed. And a floor.

Parker had shrugged out of her grey hoodie as Tara had slipped insistent hands under the hem of a well-worn t-shirt, sliding the fabric up as she pressed her palms onto Parker’s skin and drew them from hipbones to ribcage to breasts that fit so well in them. Tara stepped closer to Parker’s body, into space she wasn’t used to sharing, and used the slightest pressure to direct her backward to the couch. Parker’s hands found a hold at Tara’s waist, and her lips found Tara’s. Her hands began to roam, and Parker explored the curve of Tara’s ass and the muscles of her back, the graceful neck beneath lustrous hair, the hollows at the collar bones. Tara used the space around Parker’s explorations to remove her belt and shed her top; Parker released the catch on Tara’s bra with a dexterity that would have been remarked upon except that Parker was, of course, a cat burglar. And because Tara’s tongue was still gliding along Parker’s, her teeth catching lightly at Parker’s lower lip anytime the younger woman drew back to breathe or moan.

Parker let herself fall to the couch, catching one strong hand at the waist of Tara’s skintight pants and pulling her several steps forward. The hint was obvious, and Tara worked her way out of the last of her clothes as Parker got rid of her own. Tara looked down at her lying on someone else’s couch, flushed and panting, lips reddened and nipples peaked, goosebumps along her arms and heat radiating off of her in nearly palpable waves. As Tara leaned down, Parker fisted one hand in the hair cascading over her and the other hand hooked behind Tara’s thigh, urging the woman to finish her descent, anticipating wanting her legs spread wide.

Two women used to purposeful movement found the rhythms of each other’s bodies, Tara riding the strong thigh beneath her as she used her own for leverage against the back of her wrist, again and again letting the heel of her palm hit against Parker’s clit and driving fingers into her at just the right angle to make Parker’s back arch and muscles spasm hard. 

Two women bringing each other to climax, and then continuing the explorations of each other’s bodies, finding spots to make the other whimper or stop breathing for a moment or call out for more, more pressure, more force. Again. And again.

 

_Leather pants. Leather jacket. A sly smile._

Trying to make room in her head for Sophie’s return just at the moment they were losing Nate only added to Parker’s confusion. Confusion that had been simmering since she first realized that Nate wasn’t being Nate, since she listened to him call on them to pull one ridiculous move after another, since Nate had lost control, since she heard his voice reach that tone that other people used to tell her she had -- that “dead” voice -- since she nearly squeezed the life out of Tara and tossed her body off a building. 

Sophie had showed up and Tara had left, bringing them back to five, but Nate was with Sterling and four was the wrong number. But in the back of that helicopter Parker let the vibrations of the thrumming blades wash over her, echo inside her in places that had been opened up by Tara. By the time they landed, figured out how to scatter -- again -- she’d have mapped out a route back to having their team together and come up with a plan to push images of writhing bodies and flexing muscles and golden hair to those places in her mind that she had taught herself to ignore. 

Because Parker wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to make sense of Tara Cole, and she wasn’t sure she was happy to have seen the other woman dart across the deck after a grifter’s goodbye.


End file.
